


Aegis and Arcane

by Malochroma



Series: Aegis and Arcane [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Abusive/Manipulative Character Dynamics, Action/Adventure, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, F/M ship, Fighters' Guild Questline, Knights of the Nine Questline, Minor Mages' Guild and Dark Brotherhood Stuff, Shivering Isles Questline, also if you thought i was putting my fo4 character through some shit ohhohhh boy, lucien lachance is a jerk pass it on, main quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malochroma/pseuds/Malochroma
Summary: Armed with little more than her family's ancestral shield and her own resolve, young noblewoman Angerona Vicarius sets out to reclaim the legacy of her once-revered ancestor after recent generations have squandered the weight her family's name once carried. But the path to glory is neither easy nor kind, and as the Dragonfires die and the jaws of Oblivion open wide, Angerona finds herself, a Khajiit conjurer with a taste for unorthodox magics, and a Breton assassin working towards her own selfish goals, all entangled in the machinations of both Divine and Daedra alike.The fate of all Tamriel has been placed in their hands, and only the Nine know if they can succeed.





	1. A Name Lost Vainly

****_“This is preposterous! I'll not have my only child drag our name through the mud be associating herself with mercenaries and ruffians! We are the bearers of the Vicarius name, and we do not debase ourselves by doing the work of thugs!”_

The words that Angerona's father had spat at her during their last fight weigh heavily upon her shoulders as she stares at the door in front of her. On the other side of the door lies the Skingrad Fighters' Guild, an opportunity that she had defied her parents in order to pursue. She clutches the shield in her arms closer to her chest, hoping to gleam some small semblance of comfort from its presence as she loiters outside the door and struggles to find the willpower necessary to step inside. This is what she wants, and she knows it, but those words are still scarred into her memory. Mercenaries and ruffians, her father had called them. Thug. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the shield hard enough to whiten the bronze-brown skin of her knuckles. Has he completely forgotten how their family rose to prominence in Cyrodiil in the first place?

And then there was her mother, quiet and cold as she laid out in no uncertain terms just what is expected of Angerona. Angerona is expected to be _composed._ Angerona is expected to be _obedient._ Angerona's “willfulness” is expected to be naught but a _passing fancy_ , soon dropped more matters more _befitting_ the scion of one of the wealthiest families in the West Weald. But Angerona no longer deals in the impermanence of adolescence; she is twenty-six, after all. She has made a decision, and she will follow through on it, with or without her parents' blessing. She will not die idle the way they seem so eager to.

Angerona looks down at the shield in her arms, a flat circle of wood and iron that has been painted over with a white face and the Vicarius crest: a pair of quails standing back-to-back with each other, wrapped in a winding grapevine. The shield, Glory's Escutcheon, is an ancestral heirloom of her family that was once wielded by Gloria Vicarius, the Weald's Warden, nearly four hundred years ago as she traveled from the peaks of the Colovian Highlands to the sunlit waters along the Gold Coast, helping all who required her assistance. Gloria Vicarius was the reason that Angerona's parents now have the luxury of their indolence, and she is the reason that Angerona is here in front of the Fighters' Guild now. The Vicarius name would mean nothing without Gloria's courage and selflessness.

That's why Angerona had taken the shield with her, swiping it from the plaque it had been rotting away on while her parents had been none the wiser. This shield had been used to protect the people of western Cyrodiil; it deserved better than to be a decoration over the mantle. “Give me strength,” Angerona whispers to the Escutcheon before shouldering it and finally stepping inside.

She can't help but feel a little wonder-struck as she enters the guild hall. It's very stark in appearance, to be sure, lacking the ostentatious ornamentation that she had grown up with at the Vicarius estate. But even without elegant tapestries, the walls tell a story all their own; Angerona can see the chips and cracks in the brick from where stray blades had struck them, faint mead stains in the unpolished wood of the floor, and the single tapestry she does see is battered and threadbare, displaying the Fighters' Guild emblem in faded hues. The people here do not care about appearances of putting on a show for the world. They only care about doing their job.

Angerona doesn't see anyone in the main hall, so she simply sits down on a nearby bench and waits, idly fiddling with a few strands of umber-brown hair that had come loose from the long, low ponytail she had tied them into. Eyes the color of honey-mead are darkened with worry, and her mind is a whirlwind as she realizes just how little she thought this through. What shall she say to the leader of this branch of the guild, when they finally appear? She can't use her name as a leverage; not only would relying on her family's history cast negative implications about her confidence in her own prowess, but the Vicarius family simply isn't the bastion of strength and honor it used to be. She wouldn't be surprised if her name would end up being a mark against her. That thought hurts her more than anything, the realization that her family's name is seen as a thing to mock by the people Weald. The one proud Vicariuses, now just a bunch of hedonistic aristocrats.

But that's why she's _here_ , isn't it? To prove to the world that Gloria's legacy has not been completely cast aside, that there's still at least one descendant who still cared about what their crest once meant to the people. Her parents were right about one thing: she _was_ the scion of the Vicarius family. And she's going to prove it.

After a few more minutes of waiting, to the point where Angerona has once more taken her shield into her hands simply to stare at the weathering of the paint and the steel, there is a loud creaking noise as a door swings on rusty hinges in the adjacent room. Angerona looks over her shoulder to see that a door that appears to lead into the basement has opened, allowing a long-faced Imperial with a brownish-black ponytail and dark green eyes to step out into the dining hall. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and his movements are slightly stiff from exertion; the basement must be where they keep their training equipment. He pauses when he sees Angerona, his eyebrows knitting together a little. “Hello,” he says, a little taken aback at her presence. “Can I help you?”

“Y-yes,” Angerona squeaks. Painfully aware of how unimpressive she just sounded, she scrambles to her feet and clears her throat. “Yes,” she repeats with more confidence. “I'm here to join the Fighters' Guild.” Even with her renewed conviction, she knows she hardly looks the part of an ideal candidate. Clad in a dulled chainmail hauberk over a padded tunic and heavy cotton pants and armed with a simple sword forged from simple iron, there isn't much separating her from all the others who show up on the guild's doorstep in search of riches and recognition. But it's all she has, having left home with little more than the clothes on her back and her coinpurse.

The green-eyed Imperial looks a little sheepish for reasons Angerona can't place. “Ah,” he says. “I see. So you've come to Skingrad for that?”

“It was the closest city.” Angerona raises a dark brow. “There's not a problem, is there?” On the outside she has managed to finally compose herself into the model of confidence that she's been raised to portray herself as, but on the inside she is panicking. She has only been here minutes and already it feels like something has gone wrong. She tells herself that these thoughts are just her nervousness talking. _Everyone gets worried sometimes. Even Gloria did, I'll bet._

“Well, yes and no. The thing is, the guild hall in Skingrad doesn't have a chapter head,” the man explains, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Chapter heads and the guildmaster are the only ones who can properly enlist potential recruits into the guild. The chapter heads are Azzan in Anvil and Burz gro-Khash in Cheydinhal. Every other guild refers to either them, Donton, or Oreyn. Vilena Donton is the guildmaster,” he adds upon seeing Angerona's confusion at the unfamiliar names, “and Modryn Oreyn's her second-in-command. They're both up north, in Chorrol.”

“Oh.” So Angerona has come to Skingrad for nothing, then. It is not an unsurmountable obstacle; Anvil is only a week's journey away by foot. But Gloria started her journey in the Weald, and it is the Weald where there is the most damage that needs repairing as far as the reputation of the Vicarius name is concerned.

Her dejection must have been painted on her face, because the man takes one look at her and hastily adds, “But you needn't worry about going all that way. If you'd really like to be a part of the Skingrad hall, we'd be happy to have you. I'd just need to send a letter of recommendation to Guildmaster Donton for review.”

“I'd like that. I'm not averse to travel, but the Weald is my home. Thank you...” Angerona hesitates. “I'm sorry, I never asked your name.”

“Fadus Calidius,” the man says. “I'm a Swordsman-ranked member here at the Skingrad chapter, and the one who takes care of receiving contracts from Azzan and passing them out to the members of this chapter. I also train recruits in proper shield use, though it you're looking for a true expert in the field you'd be better off with Ambroise Canne. And you would be...?” His gaze flickers down to Angerona's shield, still clung tightly in her hands, and a spark of recognition flares in his eyes at the sight of the heraldry. “Ah. I see.”

Angerona nods, fighting to keep her composure. “Angerona Vicarius,” she says. “Daughter of Alpheus and Ursine Vicarius and the descendant of Gloria Vicarius.” She could also probably list off a couple more generations' worth of ancestors, were Fadus to the ask; her parents are the sort that are obsessed with their genealogy, if only to sate their own pride.

“I see.” Fadus looks contemplative. “I was under the impression that the Vicarius family doesn't exactly do a whole lot of fighting these days.”

And there it is: the heart of the matter, torn out from the layers of subtext and avoidance. “That's why I'm here,” Angerona says. At Fadus's raised eyebrow, she continued. “Gloria Vicarius wasn't born into her title as the Weald's Warden. She was a vineyard worker who stepped up to protect her fellows when they needed her. Not for glory, not for riches, but because it was what they needed. The Vicariuses are nobles only because of her willingness to set her life on the line for others, but my family has forgotten that. They take what they have for granted, and have made a mockery of Gloria's name. And I don't want to be like that. I want to help people.”

Fadus nods and leans back against the frame of the doorway, folding his arms over his chest. “Well,” he says, “that's certainly a nobler reason than most I've heard. But nobility — _either_ kind — won't get you into the Fighters' Guild. What _will_ is devotion and skill. And while you certainly seem devoted enough, we still need to test that second one.” He jerks his head in the direction of the basement door. “Come on. Let's see what you're made of.”

* * *

Angerona's theory that the basement is where the fighters train turns out to be correct. The basement is separated in two areas. The higher level seems to be a sort of storage and repair area for the guildmates' gear; there is a table near the stairs upon which various blades, bows, and hammers have been strewn, while near the alcove in the corner there is a porter poring over a badly dented cuirass, trying to hammer it back into its original shape. The lower half of the basement consists of a sparring ring with a practice dummy in the middle and a firing target nailed to the wall. A muscular Bosmer woman with a strong jawline and light brown hair is there as well, firing a steady stream of arrows at the target. Not every arrow has hit the center circle; the entire plank is covered in them, and there are a few scattered on the floor, bent and broken from when they had hit the surrounding stone wall. “Give the poor wood a break, Parwen,” Fadus teases. “Surely you'll want to save some of those arrows for the goblins?”

“I can always make more,” Parwen retorts, not looking away from her splintered quarry. “Besides, I'd be wasting arrows anyway if I don't hit the damn beasts when I shoot them!”

“That's all well and good, but I'm afraid that I need the sparring ring for a short while. You can take out your aggression on that plank later.” Fadus heads to the selection of weapons and grabs a pair of wooden training swords. He tosses one to Angerona, and as she catches it she can't help but be a little startled by the difference in weight between the sparring sword and her sword. She swiftly unbuckles the sheath from her belt and lays it at the table.

Meanwhile, Parwen has paused mid-draw, arrow dangling in her fingertips. “You _just had_ your turn with the sparring ring, Calidius. Why could you possibly be needing it again so soon?” She glances over at Angerona, and the crease between her eyebrows deepens. “And who's this?”

“Parwen, this is Angerona,” Fadus explains as he gives his own sparring blade a twirl. “She wants to join, so I'm giving her a chance to prove her worth. Angerona, this is Parwen, the Skingrad chapter's resident archer. Even if she isn't very good at it.”

Parwen bristles. “I'm good enough to finish every contract you've handed me,” she snaps. “And I'm still a better shot than you.”

“Yes, but that's not exactly a high bar to reach, is it?”

“Hrmph. At least you admit that you're rubbish with a bow.” Parwen places the arrows she has been holding back into her quiver and slings her bow over her shoulder. “Pit's yours,” she says, walking away from the arrow-ridden target and towards the basement steps. “Though if you want my opinion, you should just send her out to handle a goblin cave or two. It'd be a far better way to measure her skills, and the world could always do with less of those... _things_ in the word.”

“I'm not sending her off into the wilderness to clear out goblin nests before she even joins the guild, Par,” Fadus says with a sigh, but Parwen has already left, the door above creaking closed behind her. The Imperial shakes his head. “Don't you mind her. She doesn't usually have this big a chip on her shoulder. It's just that we had a job out near the Gold Coast recently that didn't exactly go as planned, and she's still a bit bothered by it. We all are, really, but she's taking it worse than the rest of us.”

“Let me guess,” Angerona says, still looking up at the basement door. “Something to do with goblins?”

Fadus cracks a smile at her comment. “Was it that obvious?” he says. “The Weald is rife with them, so if a member of the guild has a particular taste for goblin-hunting, they'll inevitably make their way to the Skingrad chapter. We may not be the most populated hall in Cyrodiil, but we're certainly the most specialized.”

“I see. So, is it just you and Parwen, then?”

“Oh, Divines no, we could never run the place all by ourselves. I mean, first of all, there's the porter.” Fadus jabs a question at the Breton in question, who is still intently focused on the dented cuirass. “Then there's Kalgos and Mazza gra-Verkul; they're off on a bandit-hunting job a little east of here.”

“Sisters?”

“Wives, actually. Very loving couple, though you wouldn't know it to hear them speak to each other. I don't know if it's and orc thing or just how those two in particular show their affection, but...” Fadus shrugs. “Anyways, our highest-ranking member is Ah-Malz. He's currently upstairs recovering from a nasty case of Helljoint. Before you ask, Argonians are immune to _poison_ , and are only _resistant_ to most kinds of diseases. Apparently Black Marsh doesn't prepare them for having to deal with infected wolf bites. So he won't be walking around for a few days yet. Arnvidr Stone-Mace is busy chasing after Dark Brotherood-shaped shadows, as per usual. And Stendarr only knows where Maglir's gone off to. Probably to the inn to avoid getting sent out on a job, because apparently he didn't realize when he joined that being a part of the _Fighters'_ Guild would involve _fighting._ ” He shakes his head. “Never mind all that. The point is, there are a lot more people here than just me, Parwen, and the porter, but we'll still got fewer numbers than, say, the Leyawiin chapter.”

“Ah, okay.” Angerona wonders what is so special about Leyawiin that requires there to be a notable amount of people there. Surely Blackwood cannot be so rife with danger that so many people are needed there? Then again, Angerona has never traveled further easy than the Imperial City; who is she to say what the southeastern reaches of Cyrodiil are like? “Well, then,” she says, nudging the conversation back to its proper path, “you wanted to test my skills in a sparring match, right?”

“That's about the gist of it.” Fadus quickly fiddles with the buckles of his armor to make sure everything is in place. “We'll be using practice weapons, but you should still treat it as if it were a real fight. I won't be able to gt a handle of your true skills if you hold back. Don't worry about hurting me; the sparring blades sting, but the worst you'll get is a nasty bruise.” He eyes Angerona's hauberk. “Favor light armor, than?”

“Honestly, I wouldn't know which one I prefer,” Angeorna replies. “I don't have any real experience with fighting in armor. I bought this from the local merchant... Gunder, I think his name was?”

“I see. Well, when you get the chance, go down to the Hammer and Tongs and ask Agnete to give it a good once over, make sure the fit is well and that it won't restrict your movements in battle. Though, I'd advise a bit of caution; Agnete spends most of her time either drunk or nursing a headache, and she's a terror either way.” Fadus grabs a simple iron-backed shield off a nearby table and heads down to the training area and gestures for Angerona to follow him. She does, and as soon as Fadus finishes dragging the training dummy and its stand out of the way, they face off against each other on opposite sides of the sparring pit. “Tell me, Angerona,” Fadus says. “Just how experienced are you with that shield?”

“Not especially,” Angerona admits as she slips into a defensive stance. “My parents always believed that this was all some sort of rebellious fit, so they indulged me for a time by letting me beat up makeshift dummies and chase the larger rats away from the storage. I've even snuck out a few times to chase after bandit camps. But I've never received any professional training.”

Fadus lets out a contemplative hum. “I see. Well, quick word of advice; the way you're holding it is going to wear you out quickly, and if you get hit wrong you'll end up just hurting yourself more than the enemy. Try to angle it a bit to match the angle of your opponent's strike. That way, it will be easier for you to redirect the force of the blow away from you, and hopefully knock them off balance.”

Angerona glances down on her shield and does as Fadus advises, tilting the shield slightly so that it leaning against her arm instead of held perpendicular to the ground. The difference in how it feels on her wrist is immediately noticeable. She looks up to ask Fadus if this is what he meant, but she doesn't have the chance to speak before he charges at her, bringing the wooden blade over his head to strike down at her. Angerona instinctively drops down to one knee and brings her shield up to meet the attack. She attempts to retaliate with a thrust of her own counterfeit blade, aimed at the iron plating of Fadus's cuirass, but he counters with a block of his own. “Not bad,” he remarks. “But you'll have to do better than that.”

_I intend to._

Angerona jumps back and returns to her previous stance, taking advantage of the brief moment her retreat has granted her to try and get a read on the situation. Fadus is far more experienced with a shield than she is, and just wailing at him with the sword will do nothing but exhaust her. She will have to find a more creative way around that circle of iron that stands between her and him, without forfeiting her own defenses.

But her afforded moment is up, and Fadus is moving to attack again. Angerona remembers what he told her about redirecting attacks and immediately angles her shield to meet the flat of his sword. Wood and steel meet, and Angerona pushes outward, knocking Fadus's sword arm aside as she takes aim at his now-vulnerable torso. But Fadus, it seems, is expecting that, and twists to the side just in time for Angerona's sword to hit empty air instead of his cuirass. She stumbles, and something heavy and solid whacks her between the shoulder blades and ignites sparks of pain in the back of her mind as she is driven to the ground with a _thump._

“The way you move, you practically announce your next plan of attack,” Fadus says, standing above her prone form with a pointed expression on his face. “It's easy to see what you're about to do. That wouldn't be a problem against your average goblin, but against a smarter enemy you'll want to keep your tactics a surprise. That'll keep them from being able to counter or dodge like I just did. You're a quick learner, though, I'll give you that.”

Angerona pushes herself to her feet. Her breath feels like stones in her lungs and she's almost certain to have a nasty bruise on her back tomorrow morning, but she has not fallen yet. Fadus is right; she needs to pull herself in and shield her thoughts as much as her body. She's just not sure how.

Struggling to keep her face as neutral as possible, she turns back around to face him, gesturing for him to attack her once more. Fadus is more than willing to oblige, coming at her with a flurry of rapid blows. She barely manages to blow each one, pushed back by the whirlwind of strikes he is launching at her. The porter has long since stopped his work on the cuirass and now watching the two Imperials fight their increasingly one-sided spar, a look of vague curiosity flickering within his hazel eyes.

It is then that Angerona realizes something. Fadus isn't attacking _her._ The way he swings a bit too far to the left, the way he's pushing her back to the edge of the sparring ring, the light but quick blows... he's attacking her shield. He's baiting her into putting all she has into defense so he can wear her out slowly and take her down while she's vulnerable.

She can't let that happen.

So she goes on the offensive, lowering her shield and lashing out with a strike of her own. Fadus is taken aback by her sudden shift in tactics, so much so that he does not even raise his own shield, and the sparring sword clips at his cuirass as he stumbles back. Now Angerona has regained some ground, and she is not about to relinquish it again. Gritting her teeth together hard enough to hurt, Angerona swings her sword in a large, sweeping arc, aiming slightly for his shield the way he had aimed for hers. And just like she had taken his bait, he takes hers and blocks, giving Angerona the leverage she needs to keep his attention long enough to close the gap and bash at his chestplate with her shield once, twice, three times.

It is the third strike that sends Fadus sprawling, gasping as he hits the ground. “Ow... all right, all right, I yield...” he winces, rolling onto his side and rubbing at his chest. “Not bad, Vicarius... not bad at all. In fact, I'd say that was.... eugh, _ow_... pretty good.”

Whatever brief flash of pride Angerona had been feeling in herself for her victory is immediately replaced by concern that she had genuinely wounded him. She tosses the sparring sword aside, kneels down and holds out her now empty right hand, which Fadus happily accepts. “Are you all right?” she asks as she pulls him to his feet. “I didn't hurt you there, did I?”

Fadus shakes his head. “Don't you worry. While I'm certainly going to be sore tomorrow, you mostly just surprised me with that last move there.” He stretches slightly, a pain expression crossing his features as he rolls his shoulders experimentally. “I'm more worried about my armor than anything. It doesn't look like you put a dent in it, though, so that's good. Our porter gas enough work on his hands as it is. Isn't that right, porter?” he calls over to the Breton, his lips tugged upwards into a cheeky grin.

The porter rolls his eyes. “I have a name,” he mutters.

“Well, maybe if you told us what it was, we wouldn't have to keep calling you 'porter,' now, would we?” Fadus retorts. He turns back to Angerona, who is cataloguing her own bruises and sores, and gestures for her to follow him up the stairs. She does, but not before grabbing her sword and scabbard off the table.

“Well, you're a little rough around the edges,” he tells her as they head back upstairs, “but you're a damn quick learner and we've certainly hired worse. You're leagues better than Maglir, I'll tell you that much. I'll send a message to Guildmaster Donton and recommend that she approve your induction into the Guild as soon as possibly. It'll take a while for the courier to reach Chorrol and back, of course, but within the fortnight you should be a proud Associate of the Fighters' Guild. In the meantime,” he says, looking over his shoulder down at her, “why don't you stick around Skingrad? There are a couple of inns nearby, and even if you're not a guild member, there's no shortage of work to be found here in the city.”

Despite her attempts to keep her childlike glee contained, a broad grin stretches across Angerona's face. “Thank you. I mean it, I really do. Letting me have this opportunity... I can't describe just how important this all is to me.”

Fadus dismisses her appreciation with a casual wave of his hand. “Ah, don't mention it,” he says. “Just don't get yourself killed before the week's out, all right? You've got potential, and that's something the Guild needs more of. Speaking of which...” he adds under his breath, his gaze focusing on something over Angerona's shoulder. She turns around to see a short, surly-looking Bosmer decked from head to toe in a set of iron armor that seems to swallow his thin frame. “There you are, Maglir,” Fadus says. “I've got a mission from Azzan that I want you to take care of. Something about an infestation of undead not too far from here. Come see me about it when you have the chance, all right?”

Perhaps it's simply Angerona's imagination, but it almost seems as if Maglir's scowl takes on a fearful edge as he hurries past them and up the stairs leading to the second floor. She suspects that it will be some time before he “has the chance” to follow up on Fadus's request.

A shared sentiment, if the vexed expression on Fadus's face is any indication. “Bah, what's even the point with him?” he mutters. “Fifty septims says he'll quit within a month.”

“Is he really that bad?” Angerona asks.

Fadus rubs the back of his neck. “Well, he was brave enough to join the guild in the first place; I guess that's worth a bit of commendation,” he admits. “Still, I don't think he's a good fit for the Fighters' Guild; he has a bad habit of ducking out whenever I try to assign him a contract, and he doesn't even bother to join in the sparring sessions. Says he has a family to support and he can risk getting hurt too badly, but _I_ say that he's not going to be supporting anyone loitering at the tavern all day. Speaking of which, there are two inns here in Skingrad. The West Weald has better beds and wine, and it's closer to boot, but the Two Sisters Lodge is cheaper and the gra-Mogakh sisters can cook up a mean roast. Whichever one you choose to stay at, we'll send someone over once we get word from the Guildmaster.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, that has to be at least the first time you've thanked me in the past five minutes. Save it for when you actually get _into_ the guild, all right?” Fadus gestures towards the door. “Now, you should get going. A quick word of advice, though: if you run into a Bosmer with dark brown hair, answers to the name of Glarthir? Don't talk to him. He's absolutely mad. Just keep your head down and avoid him at all costs.”

“Wha–”

_“All. Costs.”_

* * *

Angerona winds up choosing the Two Sisters Lodge to stay at. It might be a bit further away from the Fighters' Guild, but her coinpurse is only so full, and she is willing to traverse that added distance if it means she can keep herself from spending all her septims within a couple of days.

Besides, she finds that she quite enjoys walking the streets of Skingrad. While the Vicarius estate is closer to Skingrad than any other city, she never had the chance to truly explore it; any time she spent within the city walls usually involved being confined in one manor or another, staring out a window while her parents discussed trade deals with business parties or gossiped with their socialite friends. Now, she can wander the city uninterrupted, surrounded by the stone buildings that line the streets, pressed up against each other brick-to-brick with barely an inch between them. The most notable landmark in the city is, of course, the chapel of Julianos, towering impressively over even the tops of the city walls. Visible from every street and around every bend, the chapel makes for a good marker; Angerona uses it to keep track of her location relative to the rest of the city.

After her impromptu tour of Skingrad, she finally makes her way to the Two Sisters Lodge. With her feet sore from all the walking and her back sore from the walking _and_ the sparring match with Fadus, it is with great relief and eagerness that Angerona pushes open the heavy door nestled deep into the city's stonework and steps inside. The resulting flurry of sights and sounds and smell hit her all at once in a wave of sensation. She has never stayed and an inn like this before, and as she takes in the boot-worn, ale-stained wood of the floor, the soft murmurs of patrons whispering to each other about various private matters, and the delicate scent of freshly-baked sweetrolls mixed with the sharp taste of Colovian wine in the air, she can't help but be a little stunned. This is what an inn is like? Her parents had always described them as terrible places, hives of festering human misery to be avoided at all costs. _Be grateful we don't have to spend our nights in places like that_ , they would tell her whenever she got too vocal about her curiosity. _They're awful, truly awful._

But this is nothing like that. This is... welcoming. _This_ is what she should be grateful she has been spared from? The Vicarius family has lost sight of everything that it once was, has abandoned the glory and meaning that their name had once carried... all so they could live a life free of ale stains in the floors?

 _Melodramatic jackasses, the lot of them._ If Angerona had been harboring any doubts that leaving home was the right decision, they have quickly been tossed aside in favor of a renewed certainty. She will not be lost to that same vanity. Determination amplifying every footstep, she heads down the flight of stairs that leads into the inn's dining area and straight over to the counter, where the Orc proprietor is fussing over a tankard that still has droplets of ale glistening on its lip. The Orc looks up as Angerona approaches. “Hello there,” she says with practiced cordiality. “I don't think I've seen your face around here before. Welcome to the Two Sisters Lodge. I'm Mog gra-Mogakh, and I own this place alongside my sister, Ugak. 'Two Sisters,' see? Though you'll mostly find her outside the gates, running the city's stables. Anyways, what'll it be? Bed? Food? We've got both, and cheap.”

Angerona only intends to ask for a place to sleep for the night – or fortnight, given where things with the guild stand at the moment – but before she can respond, her stomach lets out a low, angry growl that answer's Mog's question in her stead. “Both would be nice, yes,” Angerona says with a sigh, dropping herself onto the nearest stool. “Nothing fancy for the food. Mutton if you have it. Maybe a couple of slices of bread? And wine, if that's not too much to ask.”

“Tamika's or Surilie?”

“Tamika's.” One of the few things she can agree with her parents on is their taste in wine.

“All right, then.” Mog ducks down behind the counter and resurfaces a moment later with a key in hand. “Ten septims for the room, plus ten extra for the food and drink.” As Angerona fishes the requisite coin out of her purse, Mog examines her with mild interest. “So, what brings you to Skingrad, kid?” she asks. “You aren't one of my regulars. Matter of fact, I don't think I've seen you around the city at all.”

“I'm looking to join the Fighters' Guild,” Angerona explains, sliding the septims across the surface of the counter. “Apparently I'll need to wait around for a notice to be sent from Chorrol before I can officially join.”

Mog nods her understanding, counting out the septims to make sure Angerona has handed over the correct amount before sliding them into her palm and dropping the key on the counter in their place. “Looking to make your fortune, eh? I see a lot of your types coming through here. I also see a lot of them heading out the same way. This might sound weird coming from an Orc, but the problem is that all those recruits have too many guts and not enough brains. They think they'll strike it rich in weeks, not realizing that it's not easy living every day fighting for coin.”

Angerona shakes her head. “It's not about the coin. I'm not looking to get rich. It's about something... something more personal.”

“I see.” Mog raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn't have anything to do with how your family's been doing nothing but eating grapes and sprawling across fainting couches for the past few decades, would it?”

Angerona looks up sharply. “How did you–?”

“Your shield, kid.”

“Oh. Right.” Angerona looks down at the crest adorning the escutcheon. “It might have something to do with that,” she admits. “Gloria wasn't a hero for money or fame. She was a hero because that's what people needed, and if nobody else was going to stand up and play the part, she might as well. The Weald needed a warden to defend it from whatever came its way, and that's what she was. I don't want that part of my family's legacy – the reason we even _have_ a legacy – to be lost to vanity and corruption.”

“Hm. Well, I don't know much about any of this 'noble hero' business, but you sound like you've got a good head on your shoulders, and that's worth a lot more than most people realize. Tell you what, if following in your ancestors' footsteps ends up working out for you, go see my sister over at the Grateful Pass Stables. She'll sell you a horse that's fit for a hero.”

Angerona blushes at Mog's words and smiles a little. “Thank you. I'll be sure to keep that in mind.” Truth be told, she technically already has a horse back at the estate, a finicky white horse by the name of Equinox. But in her haste to leave she had left him behind, and she doesn't think she'll be allowed back home any time soon; not while her father still thinks she's going through a rebellious phase, anyway.

Mog gives her a satisfied nod and rushes off to the pantry, presumably to fetch the food and wine Angerona had ordered. As Angerona settles into her seat, propping her elbows up on the counter, she overhears a few snippets of the murky conversations being whispered around her.

 _“...can't_ really _be one of them...”_

_“...ain't been a member of that family that's picked up a sword in years...”_

_“....damned Mages' Guild's gone and caused another mess again...”_

_“...true what they're saying about the Summerset Isles? I mean, Daedra worship, that's just mad, innit...”_

_“...tellin' ya, there's something not right about that cave, Gisbert...”_

It's that last line that catches Angerona's attention, and she surreptitiously glances over her shoulder towards the corner of the inn that the voice had come from. Sitting in a candlelit corner of the inn are two men, one a Dunmer with ashen skin and eyes the color of redwort flowers, and the other a Breton, equally pale of skin and hair. The Dunmer had been the one who had spoken, his face a gray mask of horror as he recounts his story to his Breton companion. “There's something in Goblin Jim's Cave that ain't _right_ , Gis,” he whispers. “The goblins that live there, they're... different. I'm tellin' ya!”

“Yeah, and I'm telling _you_ , Thevhis, that you're madder than Pelagius,” the Breton retorts. “It's just goblins livin' in that cave. There ain't nothing special about that. You're just jumping at your own shadow again, same as you always do.”

“Divines' wrath, Gis, can't ya take me seriously for once in yer life? Just... just promise me that you won't go into that cave, all right? Promise me that!”

“Well, I didn't plan on it in the first place, but since you're so up in arms about it, I'm starting to think that maybe I _should_ go out to that cave, just to see what's gotten you so worked up!”

“You cheeky sonuva–”

This is when Mog returns with a plate of sliced mutton and bread and a small clay goblin filled to its brim with wine. As Angerona eats, she mulls over what the Dunmer had said about this “Goblin Jim's Cave.” A cave with mysterious goings-on certainly sounds like the sort of thing a hero would go investigate. And Skingrad's chapter of the Fighters' Guild does specialize in hunting the goblins that infest the Weald. Proving that she can handle them would certainly go a long way in securing a position within the guild's ranks, wouldn't it?

Angerona finishes the food and the wine and, after murmuring a quick “thank you” to Mog and shooting one last look at the Breton and the Dunmer, she heads back up the stairs to where the rooms are. With a plan forming in the back of her mind, her resolve grows with each step she takes, reaching its peak as she herself reaches the top floor.

She's decided. Tomorrow, she will go out in search of Goblin Jim's Cave and she will find out just what is so odd about it.

Tomorrow, she will take the first step along the path that Gloria Vicarius followed.

Tomorrow, she will earn the right to use the shield slung across her back.

Tomorrow, she will prove her parents wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is actually a revamp of an older fic I had on FFn back in 2014-ish, and now that I've got Oblivion for the PC, I'm getting the urge to go back to it and fix it up real proper-like. So that's exactly what I'm doing; fixing up the prose, cutting out some of that extraneous fluff, and working towards actually finishing it this time.
> 
> (I'll get back to my Fallout fic real soon, I promise.)


	2. The Goblin Who Wasn't

As a child, Angerona would often chase down the traveling merchants and Legion soldiers traversing the roads near the Vicarius estate and beg them to tell her stories of Cyrodiil, of the Jerall Mountains and the Nibenay Basin and all the places that were too far away for her to visit herself. Unwilling to disappoint such a precocious young child, they often humored her, and would put thir travels on hold to regale her with tales of eastern Cyrodiil. Even now, all these years later, Angerona can remember what the merchants and the legionnaires would tell her about the Nibenay and the Blackwood swamps of the southeastern reaches.

“Marshlands as far as your wee eye could see,” they'd say, “all as gray as a priest's robe. None of the same types of plants you're used to; you won't be finding any nightshades or peonies growing near Leyawiin. See, down in those parts the sun don't shine as much as it does out here, and everything's covered in water, so the only types of plants that can grow there are water plants. Nirnroot, stinkhorns, lichen, that sort of thing. And it's always raining. Been there dozens of times, I have, and I've only ever seen the sun look down upon Leyawiin once. No, young miss, I don't think there's a place in Cyrodiil wetter than the marshes of the Blackwood.”

Nearly two decades after being told this, as she struggles to get a foothold on the rain-slicked hills of the Weald, pushing through mud and brush in a direction vaguely resembling north, Angerona thinks that the Blackwood may have a contender for that title. _Stupid,_ she scolds herself. _You knew it was going to rain and that it was going to make reaching the cave all the more difficult and you still went._ So much for having a good head on her shoulders.

Indeed, a smarter swordswoman would have waited until the storm passed before heading out. A _smarter_ swordswoman would have decided that a cave full of goblins, no matter how curious it may be, is not worth catching her death of cold. Of course, Angerona has never made any claims towards being smart, only determined, so she pushes on regardless, shivering slightly as a gust of rain and wind batters her. Summer weather or no summer weather, water is water, and she is absolutely drenched. _Maybe if I ask nicely, the goblins will share their fire with me._ It's a ridiculous notion, of course; the only thing a goblin would share with her is a rusty dagger to the abdomen.

Of course, when she'd woken up that morning, things hadn't been nearly so unpleasant. The sky had been blanketed with heavy, gray clouds, yes, but that wasn't so unusual for Skingrad, and certainly nothing worth commenting on when Angerona had headed downstairs that morning and asked Mog if she knew how to get to Goblin Jim's Cave.

 _“Oh, that old place?”_ the Orc had replied with a frown. _“Not sure why you would want to go there. It's not anything worth plundering or looting or whatever it is you fighters do when you aren't out on jobs. I mean, I've heard of going off to clear out abandoned or overrun silver mines in the hopes of maybe picking up some old equipment or stray ore that you can pawn off for a few septims. But Goblin Jim's Cave is just a hole in the ground. Ain't anything in there but whatever trash the goblins hoard.”_

 _“I know that,”_ Angerona had said, poring over the map of western Cyrodiil that she'd laid out on the counter. _“Like I said yesterday, it's not about the gold. I'm mostly curious about the name. Goblin Jim's Cave... do you know why it's called that?”_

Mod had simply shrugged in response. “ _That's just what the sign outside it says, according to the people who have actually been there. It's pretty easy to spot, apparently; it's just north of here, you can see the sign right outside the cave entrance. I'll admit, it's pretty strange. I mean, goblins don't even have names, so who's 'Goblin Jim?' You won't catch me sniffing around that place to find out, though, that's for sure.”_

No, that is Angerona's goal, trudging through the wet woodlands of the Weald in search of some sort of sign next to some sort of cave. Holding her shield above her head to deflect the worst of the rain, she pushes on.

It's a good hour of wandering about before Angerona finally finds what it is she has been seeking: an outcrop of dirt and stone jutting out from the ground, with sun-bleached skulls propped up on weathered spikes and a waterlogged sign just outside a wooden door. Angerona draws closer, kneeling down to get a better look at what the sign says. It's not an easy task; the sign has been exposed to the elements for who knows how long, and the rain and the sun and the morning dew have turned most of what had once been words into a crimson smear. However, as she leans forward, squinting until her eyes hurt, Angerona can barely make out faint letters stained deep into the grain of the wood.

GOBBLIN JIMS CAV

KEEPE OWT

Whoever had created this sign certainly hadn't been a master scribe. Still, Angerona has come here for answers, and finding the sign has only raised more questions. Who put this sign in place to ward away intruders? Was it Goblin Jim? Who – or _what_ – _is_ Goblin Jim? And what was it about this cave that had scared that Dunmer so badly? Eager to solve the mystery that has presented itself to her, Angerona gets to her feet and ducks inside the cave, closing the door firmly shut behind her as she does.

While the the damp, rocky interior of the cave is by no means the driest place in Cyrodiil, it is leagues better than the storm outside, and Angerona is quick to shake the water off her shield before sliding her forearm through the enarmes of the Escutcheon. She shivers as a draft hits her; while the cave is far less rainy than the outside, the underground chill amplified by the dampness seeping into the stone is palpable. _Why an_ _yone — even a goblin — would want to live here is beyond me._

Further inside the cave, Angerona can hear faint scuffling noises alongside inhuman snarls and growls. This isn't an unexpected development by any means, but she still tenses up slightly at the sound. She knows there are goblins, but she doesn't know how many or how deep the caverns go. With so little to go on, she decided to take a “hope for the best, assume the worst” approach and prepares herself accordingly. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and digs deep within herself, focusing intently on the small reserve of magicka she has built up over the years.

Angerona is no battlemage; a childhood attempt to cast a small fireball left her with scorched fingers and a very strong aversion to the idea of pursuing the matter further. However, she eventually discovered in her adolescence that she has a little more luck with the Restoration school of magic, spells devoted to healing, protecting, and bringing forth the body's innermost strengths. It is the latter type of spell that she is performing now, taking her magicka and weaving it into her blood and her bones and each breath she takes. She cam feel her body react to the spell, and a fresh wave of vigor flows through her as she proceeds into the darkness of the caverns.

It becomes rapidly apparent that her concerns about the goblins weren't unfounded. As she draws closer, the scuttling and snarling grows louder, and she presses herself against the cave walls as she nears a more open area of the caves. Peering around the corner, she sees a single pallid, hunched creature clad in the bloodstained pelt of what might have once been a bear. A blunt, rusted axe dangles from the beast's fingertips, and a leather helmet adorns its flat head. It's a goblin; not a strong one, judging by its thin frame, but it is still a threat. The goblin raises its head and begins to sniff at the air, and Angerona knows that it is at the very least aware of her presence in the cavern, if not her exact location.

Waiting about and hoping it doesn't smell her isn't going to yield results. So Angerona doesn't wait. Drawing her sword, she lunges forward and swings at the goblin. It barely dodges the first strike, but the second connects, carving a crimson path through the creature's torso before it even has a chance to let out a warning cry to its kinsfolk. With a stab of her sword that goes straight through its torso, Angerona finishes the goblin off and lets its now-limp form collapse to the the floor like a child's dropped ragdoll. A foul smell like rotten gourds wafts up to her nose, and she grimaces at the odor. Mog hadn't been kidding when she said that they hoarded garbage.

Something on the goblin's furs grabs Angerona's attention, and she kneels down to get a better look. Further inspection reveals some sort of crest drawn upon the goblin's bearskins in a hideous yellow paint: a human hand, with fingertips encircled by a skewed crescent. Under her breath, Angerona mutters a vulgarity that would send her parents into a state of shock. This isn't just some cluster of goblins that stuck together out of convenience. This is a _tribe_ of them, a _family_. It's the closest thing to civilization the monsters are capable of forming.

And if there's a goblin tribe, then there's a goblin shaman: a rare type of goblin were magicka reserves and the ability to cast spells. Angerona is starting to piece together just why the Dunmer had been so unsettled by the cave; while goblins are usually little more than a nuisance to hardened adventurers, a unified tribe led by one with magical capabilities, no matter how limited said capabilities may be, is _considerably_ more problematic. Doubly so for Angerona, who has never faced a shaman before.

For the briefest of moments she considers turning around and heading back to Skingrad, her lingering curiosity be damned, but quickly casts that thought aside. How can she possibly aspire to return honor to Gloria's legacy if she is scared away by a band of goblins? With that thought fueling her, she moves further into the depths.

The area she is in splits off into three separate caverns, each going a different direction, and it is impossible to know which path will take her further into the caves and which will just bring her back around to the beginning. She chooses the leftmost path at first, but that turns out to be a poor decision, bearing no fruit but a dead end, a trap-rigged chest, and a ragged and bloody gash on her right arm courtesy of one of the goblins loitering within. As she stumbles back into the main chamber, Angerona extends more of her limited magicka to heal the worst of the injury. The bleeding stops, but she knows she will have to seek out the city alchemist when she returns to Skingrad to ensure that it doesn't get infected.

The middle path also leads her to a dead end, but a far more lucrative one. After she kills the goblin that blocks her path, she looks around to see that it is some sort of laboratorium. At least, it looks like it _could_ be a laboratorium, what with the pestles and alembics strewn about on rotting tables and shelves that look like they are about to buckle under the weight, but Angerona is unsure if goblins can even create complex alchemical concoctions. She spots a small green bottle sitting near the edge of one of the tables, next to a pile of mushroom caps of various size and shape, and a mixture of hope and curiosity gets the better of her. It's a curiosity strongly tempered by common sense, so when she picks it up off the table and uncorks it she is decidedly not so reckless as to drink it immediately. Instead, she raises the mouth of the bottle to her nose and smells its contents first. After all, healing potions have a very distinct aroma, one that even a non-practitioner of alchemy such as herself would be able to discern.

This scent, however, burns Angerona's nose with a heavy bitterness that causes her stomach to churn and heave; it is certainly _not_ the sickly sweet smell of a healing potion. Her surprise at the way the burning smell suddenly hits her causes her to drop the bottle to the floor, where it breaks and the greenish liquid within spills across the ground. She will wait until she gets back to Skingrad to have a proper alchemist look at her arm, she decides, instead of sniffing at strange potions mixed by goblins. She does, however, decide to grab a couple of the smaller alchemical tools lying around and stuff them in her pack to pawn off later. She also grabs one of the books off of the shelves for herself, a dusty old tome with the title _Night Falls on Sentinel_ embossed into the beaten leather of its cover.

It is the rightmost path, then, that eventually leads Angerona deeper into the tunnels towards her still-unknown destination. In hindsight, she thinks as she descends further into the consuming darkness, she should have brought a torch with her. Not that one would have survived the rainstorm, mind, but she should have thought of it, at the very least. There's still enough light streaming in through the entrance and emanating from patches of luminescent fungus, but those sources grow scarcer with each step she takes.

Up ahead, she can see the outline of a door, a smooth square-ish silhouette against the jagged gray and blue shadows that make up the cavern walls. She makes her way towards it, carefully so as not to trigger and traps hidden in the darkness, all the while wondering why the goblins further in haven't heard all the commotion; she hasn't exactly been the stealthiest adventurer in the Weald, after all. She surely hasn't cleared them all out, has she?

Not five seconds after she thinks that does the ambush strike.

Angerona realizes that something is wrong the instant before it happens, when she stops dead in her tracks and realizes that there is no sound, no snuffling or snarling that would otherwise signal a goblin's location. Before she has time to figure out what that means, though, the silence is split in twain by a cacophony of high-pitched screeching, and four goblins clad in leather and bones and wielding nasty-looking spiked clubs leap from the darkness and lunge towards her. Angerona jerks her shield upward, but she can only protect herself from one of the clubs. The other three strike her head on, and while her hauberk protects her from the jagged tips of the spikes, the clubs still bruise and bash. One of them lands right on the spot between her shoulder blades where Fadus hit her the day before, aggravating the lingering ache into a pain that causes stars to dance across her vision and forces her to her knees.

Angerona's in a bad spot, and she knows it. She is completely surrounded; the goblins have her boxed in like a caged animal, leaving no room for her to escape as they raise their weapon in unison for another attack. Trapped, Angerona pulls her shield over her head just as the goblins bring their clubs down. The force of their weapons colliding against her shield, _thnk thnk-thnk thnk_ , sends a shock of force down her arm and into her shoulder that causes her to wince. Within the split second between the goblins hitting her shield and them readying their weapons to collide _again_ , Angerona strikes, using her free hand to draw her blade from the scabbard at her hips and swinging it in an outward arc in one swift motion. The gleaming steel carves through the mottled, pallid skin and sinews of the legs in front of her with ease, sending a spray of dark blood cascading down across the stone. The goblin she has struck screams and falls backwards, and as soon as it hits the ground Angerona takes the newfound opportunity to duck out of the circle of monsters, slicing the tip of her sword through the felled goblin's throat good measure along the way.

The other three goblins are not willing to give up their quarry so easily, however, and as Angerona gets to her feet they lunge at her, pressuring her into a defensive stance as they swing at her again and again. She takes a few shaky steps back, only to let out a short gasp as her retreat is halted by her back hitting the frigid stone of the cavern walls. _Damn it!_ She's been cornered by a bunch of Divines-damned _goblins._ Why hadn't she been keeping a better eye on her surroundings, or moved into the tunnels where she could not be corralled so easily?

If she survives this, she will have to work on being more aware of her surroundings, but first she must make sure she _does_ survive. As things stand now, her odds aren't looking great; Angerona won't be able to attack any one of the goblins without being beaten into a bruised and broken mess by the other two. With no other options available to her, she is forced to simply stand there, back to the wall, and block strike after strike. As the seconds drag into eternities, she gradually becomes more and more aware of the way her shield arm is growing numb from exhaustion and pain. She'll only be able to hold out for so much longer. These goblins are clever, she'll give them that much.

Almost... too clever?

One of the goblins aims a low sweep at Angerona's legs, and she stumbles gracelessly to the side to avoid it. Her mind is racing as a whirlwind of confusion sweeps through her thoughts and leaves a trail of questions in its wake. Goblins aren't _stupid_ , per se. They're capable of forming alliances and societies with others of their kind, and they have the capacity to use tools and weapons and build traps. But they're not tactical geniuses, either; their combat techniques often boil down to little more than “hit the thing over and over again until it stops breathing,” which suits a race that deals mostly in skirmishes, not wars or sieges. But these goblins are behaving differently; they launched an ambush and used their superior numbers to surround her and back her into a corner. And the way they are aiming for her limbs, trying to weaken her much in the same way that Fadus had tried to weaken her defenses during yesterday's spar...

Angerona is trying to understand things, but she can't because nothing about the scenario she is in makes any sort of sense to her. These _aren't_ goblin tactics, she knows that much. So where did they learn how to do this sort of thing?

She's out of time for pondering, though; her shield arm waves and dips a little, one of the goblins lashes out towards her newly-exposed head. Still a little shaky on her feet, Angerona decides that the best course of action is simply to let herself collapse, dropping to the ground while the club passes overhead, doing nothing more than ruffling her hair. Angerona sees her chance and seizes it, kicking the goblin away and sending it crashing into the other two. As soon as they stumble back, giving her the precious few feet of space she needs, she jumps up and drives her blade into the soft flesh of the nearest goblin's belly. Ignoring the rolling of her stomach as blood and bile spew out over her fingers, she pulls back the sword and stabs the rightmost of the surviving goblins, using the edge of her shield to strike at the neck of the leftmost one. Relief floods her as she hears the bones in its throat crack under the force of the impact.

The goblins fall, and Angerona is left alone, sore and tired but _alive_ and grateful for it. Her muscles groan in protest as she moves, kneeling down and pulling her sword out of the goblin she'd shoved it into seconds prior. Wiping the bloodstained blade against the heavy cotton of her pants before sheathing it, she stumbles out of the room and away from the corpses that now litter it.

Looking at the state of things as they are, Angerona knows she should turn around and go back to Skingrad. There is no contract or promise hinging on her success; in fact, “success” would be the wrong word to use, as that would imply that she is here for a specific purpose, rather than blind curiosity. But she moves on regardless, finally reaching the door on the far side of the room. Digging her fingers into the small gap between the wood and the wall, she pries it open, and the squealing of the rusted hinges and the sound of the uneven planks dragging against the stone floor together create a symphony of noise that could wake even the quietest of the dead. Angerona lets out and exasperated sigh, but doesn't bother to try and hide the noise. The illusion of stealth is long gone, and in any case she has never been the sort for sneaking about. Leave that to the patient archers who spend hours in the trees waiting for just the right shot, she thinks as she descends into the darkness.

She is content to simply welcome the goblins to her blade.

* * *

The further into the caves she goes, the less Angerona understands why the entire Skingrad chapter of the Fighters' Guild would devote itself so heavily to goblin hunting; it is a very unpalatable task. As she cleans the blood from her sword for what is easily the tenth time that afternoon, she pauses to take note of where she is.

She will give the goblins this: they have impeccable tastes in caves. The caverns are expansive, the tallest ceilings reaching easily a good twenty feet over her head and the main room so large it could hold the remains of a small house. In fact, that is _exactly_ what it holds; Angerona is standing upon what used to be the wooden floors of a modest cabin, dimly lit by a small firepit set up by the goblin she'd most recently killed. At least, she presumes that the long remaining wall with a worn-away painting still hanging on it is that of a cabin. It does raise the question of _why_ these ruins are here. She's fairly certain the goblins didn't build this, in only for the fact that any goblin tribe that knew how to build stone-brick cabins would also surely know how to rebuild them once they start to collapse.

But it's not the cabin that's the strangest part of these tunnels. No, that honor still belongs to the goblins themselves. While clearing the lower levels of the cave, Angerona had been sure to closely watch how they fought, how they held their rusted axes and makeshift clubs, and every goblin she'd fought had displayed prowess far beyond what they should have. The more she thinks about it, the more it unsettles her. _That's why the Dunmer was so scared of this cave,_ she realizes. _Not because of the sign, or the name, or the goblins, or even that there's a whole tribe. No, he was scared because the goblins aren't fighting like goblins._

Every goblin tribe has a leader. If Angerona finds the leader, then maybe she will find the source of all this strangeness. So she leaves the remnants of the cabin and moves onward. The consequences of dungeon-trawling for such a prolonged period of time are beginning to weigh upon her; a dull ache blankets her body from the numerous bruises and other minor injures she has sustained while fighting, and the amount of magicka she has been forced to use in order to heal said injuries has left an dizzying emptiness deep within her. Soon, the limits of her own body will force her to retreat to the surface, answers or no answers.

As she nears yet another poorly-built wooden door, Angerona feels a faint sense of unease creep up on her, one that grows stronger with each step she takes. It feels... it feels as though she is being... watch? But no, that cannot be possible... can it?

She sweeps a honey-hued gaze across the cavern, searching for any sort of hidden ledges or other vantage points that might prove advantageous to a clever goblin archer. She finds nothing. But the sense that something, some _one_ has turned its gaze upon her persists still. She shakes her head and tells herself that it simply the result of being in the dark so long, and she believes that excuse enough to continue her trek.

She doesn't quite believe it enough to sheathe her sword, however.

The room beyond the door is just as large as, if not larger than, the last room. In the darkness, she cannot even see the other side, and even just a cursory glance at the ceiling tells her that no ladder in the Weald would reach the stalactites hanging overhead. She's once again surprised by the sheer size of this place; the only indication of the cave's existence from the outside had been a small mound jutting out of the hilly landscape. Just how far down had she _gone?_

The sense that she is being watched reaches its peak as she takes a few steps out into the cavern, exacerbated further that her only source of light is another dying fire in the center of the room. Any nearby goblin could almost certainly see _her_ , though. After all, goblins spend most of their lives surrounded by the oppressive umbra of the underground, and their eyes have adjusted accordingly. Angerona doesn't like being at such a disadvantage. In hindsight, she _really_ should have brought a torch.

A scuffling sound bounces of the walls to her right, followed by a familiar hissing. The noise is small, but it's enough for Angerona to strike outwards, blade whistling through the darkness until it is stopped with a meaty _thnk_ against a goblin's body. The goblin can barely let out the first note of a warning cry before Angerona strikes again and silences it permanently.

Damn it all. That feeling is still there, which means that there must be more of the beasts nearby. As a dark, viscous red drips from her sword and splatters against the ground below, Angerona pushes forward, squinting against the darkness in an attempt to try and determine which shadows are simply shadows, and which ones hide the lurking figures of yet more goblins.

She doesn't see anything. She doesn't hear anything. But she can still _feel_ the eyes upon her, and it is driving her mad that she can't figure out from _where_. _Maybe it's not another goblin,_ she thinks. _Maybe it's just a rat, waiting for the best time to run across your foot and scare you senseless._ She smiles a little at the thought, and lowers her sword just the tiniest bit.

Then she hears it, the unmistakable _tp-tp-tp­_ of bare feet across the floor behind her. The footsteps are soft in a way the goblin footsteps are _not_ , and they are fast, too fast for Angerona to do anything but freeze in place like a deer cornered by a hunter as the footsteps catch up to her and the tip of a sword is driven right up against her back. Once again she is saved by the hauberk as the blade catches on the thickly-woven chainmail instead of digging into her flesh. When Angerona stumbles forward, she is largely unharmed.

She turns around, expecting to see another goblin, but what she finds facing her almost makes her drop her sword in shock, for it is not a goblin but a _man_ that meets her gaze. From his height and build she guesses that it is a Breton standing in front of her, with skin stretched taut against malnourished musculature and stringy dark hair coated in dust and grime. There is a bestial fury in the man's eyes, and when he opens his mouth it's not words that come out but a rough snarl. But most notable of all is the mark branded across the right side of his bare chest, a white scar that stands out even against his pale complexion. It is the same symbol that had been painted on the goblins' leathers, the same handprint and skewed crescent.

Suddenly everything makes sense. The cave's name, the sign outside, the techniques the goblins used. _So this is the mystery of the cave,_ Angerona thinks. A man, living in a cave an scavenging through long-buried ruins, taken in by a tribe of goblins and eventually becoming their leader. “J-Jim?” she ventures cautiously, shifting her shield ever so slighting in preparation for an attack. “That's your name, isn't it? You're Goblin Jim?

The man's expression turns into something resembling recognition for a brief moment before just as quickly contorting into a rage even fiercer than it had been before. With a fearsome cry, he lunges forward, the steel of his shortsword glinting in the darkness as he aims a slashing strike at her.

 _Clang._ Angerona blocks the attack with ease. She doesn't expect this to be a difficult fight; this “Goblin Jim” fellow doesn't look like he's had a meal more substantial than a cave rat in his entire life, and she has the advantage in height, muscle mass, and weapon length. As he lashes out again, she blocks again, twisting her shield to knock him off balance and give herself a clear shot at his unarmored chest. Seizing the opportunity to end this quickly, she jabs her own blade directly towards his heart.

But her blow never reaches its target. Instead, Goblin Jim takes a step back and throws his free hand up towards her, and a burst of magicka erupts from his palm and engulfs Angerona in a cold green glow. Immediately it feels as if her limbs have turned to stone and her blood has frozen in its veins, numbing her senses and leaving her frozen in place. _Oh, right,_ Angerona thought dourly. _He's the leader, which would make him a shaman._

The paralysis only lasts a second before she is released from it's grip, but a second is all Goblin Jim needs to drive the palm of his bony hand into her stomach. Lightning crackles across his hand, and pain shoots through Angerona's body, locking her limbs up once more. When the not-actually-a-goblin steps away, she falls to the ground, sword clattering beside her as her grip slackens. Her vision is blurring and splitting in two, sending the room around her spinning, and all she can feel is a dull, tingling pain that crawls across her skin like an army of ants.

 _Magic_ , she thinks. _What can I do against magic?_ She knows the Escutcheon was enchanted against fire, but that is worthless against lightning spells, and her own pool of spells is extremely limited. All she has is her healing spells, a couple of spells to help strengthen and fortify her body in battle, and a...

… and a spell of magic resistance that she picked up from the Mages' Guild merchant in Anvil.

She remembers it now. She'd been barely sixteen years of age when her family had gone to spend a fortnight in the coastal city to pursue business ventures, and she'd no interest in sitting around, listening to nobles gossip. So she'd slipped out one evening and explored the city on her own, eventually winding up at the Mages' Guild, watching the chapter's residents cast their spells. That was where she'd met Thaurron, a square-faced Bosmer whom she had given all her pocket money to so he would teach her a spell he'd been developing, one that would allow the caster to resist the effects of foreign magicka. Of course, she'd never thought she'd need to actually _use_ it; it had been an impromptu act of rebellion, a young girl doing something she knew her parents would disapprove of simply because they weren't around to tell her no.

Just a rebellious little whim that has come around to potentially save her life. _Funny, these games of fate the gods play._

Goblin Jim doesn't move to finish her off. Angerona doesn't know why. Perhaps he sees her on the ground and assumes that she is already dead, or perhaps he is simply building up magicka for a spell that will put her down permanently. She doesn't care, though, because every second he spends not killing her is a second she can still use to turn the fight around. Closing her eyes and sifting through a decade's worth of haze, she can remember what Thaurron had told her when he first taught her his spell.

_“Try to weave your magicka into a sort of armor around your being. Remember, though, this isn't a basic shielding spell that you simply throw outwards. You are making this resistance a part of you, internally and externally, like a second skin. The University may have classified this spell as being part of the Restoration school when I sent it to them for review, but I believe it shares many similarities with spells in the Alteration school. You're not just healing or protecting yourself, your changing yourself to be more resilient. Try to remember that when you cast, or the whole mess will fall apart.”_

Angerona focuses on that, and as her magicka drifts to the forefront of her mind she nudges it forward with her will, urging it to weaves itself into her being. Thaurron compared it to an Alteration spell, but casting it has always been like casting a healing spell, at least for her. It travels through her veins, mingling with her body as it does what magic does best. Through her closed eyelids, she can see a faint glow that is sure to be coming from her prone form as she casts the spell, and a surprised hiss tells her the Goblin Jim sees it, too. No longer afforded the luxury of her foe's inaction, she uses the last of her magicka to give herself a boost of healing energy and pushes herself to her feet, grabbing her sword of the ground as she does. “So,” she coughs. “Want to try that again, _Jim_?”

To his credit, Goblin Jim is only stunned for a moment before he regains his composure. His hands spark with magicka and he casts another spell, this one marked by a dangerous red glow. Angerona can feel the magicka she has infused into her body flare up while at the same time a cold terror grips her heart and squeezes it. A fear spell, she surmises, meant to overwhelm a person's rationale and force their fight-or-flight instinct to govern them instead. But even as Angerona struggles against the blind panic that weighs down upon her, she retains her reason enough to see two good sides to the situation.

Firstly, the fact that she is not running around the cavern like a chicken with its head cut off is proof that the spell is working exactly as designed. If she ever finds herself in Anvil, she'll have to thank Thaurron.

Second, if Goblin Jim is resorting to using Illusion spells to disorient and incapacitate her, then he must believe that he cannot best her in one-on-one combat. And that will be his downfall. Pushing herself through the mitigated effects of the fear spell, Angerona charges forward and, in one confident movement, closes the gap between her and Goblin Jim and drivers her sword into his chest, splitting her brand in two.

Goblin Jim's eyes widen as he twitches upon the end of her blade, and as soon as she pulls it back he collapses, jerking violently against the floor for a few seconds before giving one last, shuddering breath and falling still. Feeling none too sanguine herself, Angerona allows herself to drop as well, falling flat on her rear and drawing her knees to her chin as she lets her magicka unwind itself from her burning muscles.

She just fought an entire nest of goblins all led by a Breton mage on her own. And _won_. She defeated every single one of them with little more than a few spells and her own strength as a warrior.

The realization fills her with hope. _Maybe_ , she thinks, _just maybe, Gloria's legacy hasn't been lost yet._

* * *

The journey back to Skingrad takes Angerona far longer than the trip to the cave, mostly because the trip to the cave hadn't involved her bleeding and limping. By the time she staggers into the Two Sisters lodge and collapses into the nearest chair, the sun is lingering just over the horizon and the streets are starting to clear out for the night.

Mog stares at Angerona as she enters. “Well,” she says, nonplussed. “You look like shit.”

Angerona can only chuckle at that. “That's about how I feel, too,” she replies. “By the way, did you know that the Goblin Jim of Goblin Jim's Cave was never really a goblin at all?”

“Wait, really?”

“Mhm,” Angerona hums. “He was a Breton, acting as the shaman for a tribe of goblins who lived there. I'm sure there was an interesting story behind _that_ arrangement, but he wasn't exactly in the mood to tell it. Not that it matters much anyway; he's dead now, along with the goblins.”

“Really?” Mog sounds surprised at this. “You killed him?”

“Well, it's not like I had much of a choice in the matter. He tried to electrocute me. He almost succeeded.”

“I wasn't judging you. Way I see it, if someone's trying to kill you, there's nothing wrong with killing them right back. Turnabout's fair play, or at least that's what the Bretons up in High Rock like to say. Anyways, do you need anything? I imaging that goblin slaying is thirsty work.”

“Hm... How about a bottle of your strongest mead and direction's to the city's alchemist?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to rewrite the first pass of this fic (which was posted up to chapter five on FFn) largely to cut out extraneous fluff and trim the wordcount.
> 
> This pass of the chapter is twenty-nine words shorter than the first one. Good job, me.


End file.
